


It's all right

by NishkaGray



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode: s10e23 My Brother's Keeper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/NishkaGray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My personal 10.23 fix-it cause Carver sure as fuck won't do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's all right

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit any of my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network, including a local area network, sell or offer it for sale, or use such content to construct any kind of database.

At first, the darkness seeps through the vents. They catch on quickly. It has a smell, thick and gritty, the type of stench you can taste in the back of your throat. They figure, if it was toxic, they’d both be dead already. But they work together to cover the vents up. Neither one of them will say it out loud, but they both recognize it. It’s fire and ozone and a hint of burning flesh. It lingers on their tongues like ash. They’ve both tasted hell before. 

They wait. It’s been a while since they’ve been trapped in a small space together. Long enough where it’s stopped feeling like home. Dean doesn’t feel like himself yet; he’s not sure he ever will. How much of it was him and how much was the Mark’s influence? The question is a new burden and already weighing him down. It only took a second to shoulder it, but he knows he’ll be carrying it for years to come. 

Sam is silent and bruised, and for once, speechless. He doesn’t look surprised though. Dean wants to ask him about it, because in terms of unintended consequences, he’s pretty sure they’ve both just broken the world record. He even opens his mouth to do so, when he realizes how that conversation would end. How the question would sound. He’s pretty sure that the first words out of his mouth should be an apology. So he says nothing. 

The glow from the radio makes the whole thing even more unreal. If he blinks, they could be parked on the side of the road in Kansas, catching a nap on their way to nowhere. On the side of a cornfield in Illinois. In the middle of nowhere, Ohio. It’s more believable. That they’d both fallen asleep and dreamt the past year or so. This whole thing, the everlasting darkness descending on the world, tasting like fire and brimstone, being trapped in a car after killing Death, it’s just too… insane, even for them. Ridiculous. It would be funny if his knuckles weren’t bruised. If Sam didn’t bear the imprints of them on his cheek. The apology he doesn’t say is bitter in his mouth, more so because he knows Sam won’t hear it. There’ll be a lot of ‘That wasn’t you Dean,’ and ‘You didn’t know what you were doing,’ and ‘You should be blaming the Mark.’ 

Of course, it’s all crap, and they both know it. But Sam’s always been good at making excuses for Dean’s shit. Sam will say it’s all fine and Dean will know it’s not fine at all, and he’ll get angry because Sam won’t get angry, until Sam finally gets angry to which Dean’s knee-jerk reaction will be to get defensive and… round and round they’ll go until the world ends. Unless it already ended and they didn’t know it yet.

The radio’s off cause there’s nothing but static, and the hell-fog is surprisingly quiet about the whole consuming the world business, so Sam’s soft huff comes off loud enough to make him twitch.

“I bet God’s so pissed right now.”

It’s funny. Dean snorts, trying to swallow a chuckle, and chokes on his own spit. Laughing seems inappropriate and somehow foreign, like it doesn’t fit his face any more. The Mark hadn’t exactly been a thing that comedies are made out of. But it feels good. 

When he glances over, Sam is smiling. He looks surprised and pleased. It’s a stomach twisting combination, the bruises and the smile, the bad and the good all wrapped up into one. 

He can read Sam like a book. The Mark is gone, that’s all that matters. The Mark is gone, Dean is back, and the darkness is secondary. The possible end of the world? Not exactly on the top of the priority list. And why should Dean be surprised? To him, everything had always been secondary to Sam. Sam saves him, he saves Sam, and along the way they break more things than they manage to fix. Maybe they’ve never broken the world before, but really, it had only been a matter of time. 

“How’s your face?” he asks in lieu of an apology, and Sam doesn’t miss a beat, “Still better looking than yours.”

This time he chuckles without choking and it feels even better. Like something in him is thawing out, loosening up. It feels like home.

Sam’s hand wraps around his elbow and tugs him closer. Dean lets himself be pulled, although he can’t help but grumble about it.

“What are you doing?”

Sam doesn’t say anything but his expression speaks for itself. It’s a mix of ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ and ‘What’s with the stupid question?’ all wrapped up in a glaring neon sign that flashes, ‘Shut up, Dean.’ 

Dean shuts up.

Sam’s mouth tastes like coffee and blood, and it’s fucked up that this is a familiar taste, down to the faint leftover traces of tears. His hand is rough against Dean’s jaw, tilting his head, tongue sweeping in at a perfect angle to make Dean shiver. That’s all right. It’s Sam who knows how to make them fit together, despite all the sharp edges and broken pieces, like a damaged puzzle only he knows how to solve. It doesn’t matter if he molds himself to Dean, or if his hands coax Dean into something malleable instead. What matters is the heat of Sam’s breath against his skin. His teeth scraping Dean’s lip. Sam’s thumb, brushing over his cheekbone, a tiny reassurance that Dean would never ask for, but wants all the same. This is where they say it all.

All the ‘You almost died,’ and ‘What would’ve I done if I’d lost you,’ and ‘I’m so sorry I let you down again.’ Breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together and just breathe each other in, Sam’s cheek warm against his own, the soft tickle of his eyelashes. Thousands of words passing without a sound. And if Dean is trembling, that’s all right too. He can tighten his hands on Sam’s jacket and just hold on for a while. There is no one here to see.

In a few minutes they’ll address the general shitstorm of their situation. Dean will say something infuriating and Sam will call him out on it. They’ll tear into each other because this is what they are, who they are, gunpowder and flame, always on the brink of exploding. Dean will be an asshole and Sam will be indignant and Dean will push him until Sam says things he’ll regret, and round and round they’ll go like they always have, whether the wold ends or not. 

But right now the car is wrapped in darkness and Sam is smiling against his mouth. They’re alive. And Dean thinks, this is all right. 

He tucks his head against Sam’s shoulder and settles in to wait.


End file.
